


Trust in You

by HazelDomain



Series: God Made Me Do It [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Chuck is God, Crying, Episode: s11e22 We Happy Few, It's kinda the last thing left to do, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Sam's been praying, Wall Sex, raped by god, when all else fails, you'd cry too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is crushed, he's prayed to God for years and can't believe this is happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust in You

 

 

 

There’s fight or flight. Everybody knows fight and flight. You put up your dukes or you get the fuck out of dodge. Fight or flight.

Sam did neither.

And in retrospect it wouldn’t have helped anyway. What was he going to do, punch out _God?_

It makes sense when he thinks about it logically- that there was nothing he could have done anyway, except hurt himself trying. So he didn’t try. And maybe later he’ll tell himself that was the truth.

It isn’t, but he’ll tell himself that anyway.

He knew Chuck was behind him, following him down the hallway toward the dungeon, which Chuck had said he wanted to see and Sam would later realize he had no interest in at all.

He knew Chuck was behind him, but he hadn’t realized he was so _close,_ so when he grabbed the sliding shelves and pulled, be backed right into the deity. And he started to apologize- he was always doing that, running into things, it was one of the side effects of being _big_ \- but Chuck wasn’t backing up, not like people normally did when you backed into them by accident. Chuck was crowding him forward, pushing him into the shelves, and Sam didn’t fight.

That’s what he’d come back to later, again and again. That he didn’t fight.

He wouldn’t have won, but he didn’t even _try._

Maybe he could have gotten out of the room, put Chuck off a little longer.

Sometimes when he imagines it, he’ll pretend he snapped out a brusque ‘ _what the hell, man?’_ and then stalked off to Dean’s room.

Dean couldn’t fight god, not any more than he could, but if a blanket can protect you from the thing under the bed, then Sam’s older brother could have protected him from God.

Sam didn’t go to Dean. It wasn’t a decision. He didn’t even think about it, he’ll realize when he’s being perfectly honest with himself.

He felt Chuck’s solid weight behind him, crowding him up against the shelves, and he felt the long hard line of Chuck’s cock against his thigh and things just kind of went staticky.

Chuck said they’d have to hurry and when Sam didn’t respond Chuck sighed and pushed him forward, hands sliding up the inside of his clothes, running over his body, and Sam thought _maybe he’s faking? There’s someone he needs to fool._

Later he would tell himself that maybe he was just playing along. Following Chuck’s lead until it was too late. He keeps his hands on the shelf in front of him. There are boxes on the shelf, thin things filled with paper. The handwriting is too worn and spidery to read, but Sam tried anyway, puzzling out the letters one at a time while Chuck fumbled with his belt.

His pants dropped and he was suddenly cold and that snapped him back into the moment.

“What-?” he asked dumbly and Chuck shushed him.

“The others are right down the hall, you want them to hear?” Chuck hissed in his ear, and Sam had to really think about it. Because that’s what he should do, he should call for help, only then he’d have to explain why he needed it, to fight off a guy what- half his size?

He didn’t have an explanation and then, crazily, _stupidly,_ he got the idea to pray. It was just in there, wedged tight into the problem solving method, that when all else failed and he needed that one little touch of luck, he could always, _always_ pray.

Chuck laughed a little, right in his ear.

“Don’t you worry, Sam, I gotcha. I’ll give you what you need.”

He didn’t want this. He didn’t. He didn’t.

He _didn’t,_ he thought desperately, gritting his teeth as Chuck lined up and pressed into him.

It was ice and fire, burning as Chuck forced him open, the familiar chill of grace as Chuck healed him.

“It’ll have to do,” Chuck panted. “Pressed for time, you know?”

There had never been anything _after_ praying. That was the end of the line, the last defensive move, unlikely to help but even more unlikely to _hurt,_ it could never make it _worse,_ Sam knew, because God was out there, out there listening, keeping an eye out for him, Sam _knew_ that, he’d always _believed_ that, all the way back to those rare days when John would tuck him into a motel bed and help him say his prayers.

“Could you not?” Chuck asked, and Sam realized the other man was looking straight into his head, watching the pain and the disgust and going on _anyway_ and Chuck just _sighed_ and Sam felt himself beginning to cry.

Chuck was using something to slick his way and wildly Sam felt gratitude for that, he’d felt this before of course, but Lucifer had always just fucked him bloody and let his own fluids-

“Really, Sam, _really?_ ” Chuck snapped. He was picking up the pace and Sam recognized this and relaxed, it was almost over, almost done with now, almost over, almost over, almost-

He buried his face in the bend of his elbow, letting his jacket soak the tears and snot off his face, gritting his teeth and trying to be silent. The bunker was full of people. He didn’t want anyone walking in for this.

He tried not to think anything, pulled out the old vocabulary list for the SATs- he’d been using it to distract himself since he was fourteen. Chuck made an annoyed sound in his ear but he ignored it and started on the A’s and by the time he made it to C, it was over.

Chuck pulled back and something hot and wet trickled down his leg and Sam knew he could have cleaned it up, but he didn’t. Chuck just stood behind him watching silently as he reached for his pants.

It didn’t work. One of his knees crumpled and he ended up on the ground. He blinked, trying to piece together how he got there.

Later, Sam would learn that sometimes, people don’t fight or flee. They freeze. It happens. “Normal response to trauma,” he’d learn.

It wouldn’t help.

It wouldn’t get rid of the memory of Chuck’s dismissive glance. The way his nose wrinkled when he looked down at Sam’s reddened face.

“All that begging and then you just _cry,_ ” Chuck mumbled, shaking his head, and then he was gone.

 

 

Something wet was soaking into Sam’s shorts and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t limping, wasn’t bruised, hadn’t been left sore and broken like Lucifer used to. Chuck had healed him perfectly, not so much as a lingering soreness to mark what had happened.

All Sam needed to do was slap on a smile and walk back out into the common room like nothing was wrong. No one would suspect, not Crowley or Rowena or Lucifer himself. There was no sign it had ever happened.

Sam went down the hallway instead, pausing outside Dean’s door.

He’d catch hell for this.

He had a feeling it might be worth it.

The door opened silently, throwing a beam of light across Dean’s sleeping form. His weapons glinted from where they had been hung lovingly on the wall.

Sam didn’t undress, didn’t even take his shoes off, just closed the door and crossed the room in the dark. Dean’s even breathing was the only sound in the room, and Sam could pretend they were kids again. He’d had a nightmare, that’s all.

He’d had a nightmare and now he was sneaking across the divider between their beds, slipping in beside his brother because no matter what lived under the bed, Dean could keep it at bay.

Nothing could hurt him when Dean was there.

Sam curled his too-large form into bed beside his brother, and Dean stirred but didn’t wake. He shoved his fist in his mouth, determined not to make a sound.

The tears would stop eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Well it's 1:15AM which means I've got about ten hours until the spnkink_meme prompts open, *again* and I've still got tabs open from *February.* 
> 
> Gonna pound out as many meme fills as I can before that happens. Friends and family have taken to openly mocking me for how many tabs I have open just, always. Always.


End file.
